by Terry Brooks
“That’s ridiculous,” Pyson Wence snapped.
“They didn’t think so,” she snapped back. “Ahren Elessedil gave his life to help that boy. We might assume that he had a good reason for doing so. We might even assume he thought the boy’s life more important than his own. Why would he think that? Because the boy was the best hope any of them had of reaching Grianne Ohmsford inside the Forbidding! That being so, the one thing we didn’t want to do was to bring him anywhere near the place where she went in! Especially after you caught him trying to hide a talisman of unknown origin and power!” She paused, looking from face to face. “But that was exactly what you did. Now both are gone, the boy and his staff, vanished into thin air in this very room.”
She took a deep breath. “Take a moment and think it through carefully. Where do you think they are?”
Traunt Rowan’s face had gone white. “That isn’t possible,” he whispered. “No one can get into the Forbidding.”
She gave him a tight smile. “We did.”
He stared at her, unable to put words to what he was thinking.
“There is one way to find out if I am right,” she said softly. “You do still have the Elven girl locked away, don’t you? She hasn’t escaped with the others, has she?”
Traunt Rowan flushed. “We have her.”
“Bring her to me.”
He left at once, taking Pyson Wence with him. Eyes straight ahead as they stalked through the doorway, neither of them glanced at her on their way out.
Good, she thought. Let them think about what they have done. Let them dwell on it a little and consider what might be in store for them if I am right.
She stood alone in her chambers and despaired over how convoluted things had become. Their plan had been a simple one in the beginning—confine Grianne Ohmsford to the Forbidding and take control of the Druid order. Sen Dunsidan had given them the liquid night, and she had found a way to use it. The plan had worked exactly as it was supposed to work, but since then the situation had spiraled steadily out of control. It had begun with that boy, Penderrin Ohmsford. Why it had begun with him rather than with his more experienced and more deeply talented father, she still didn’t know. Nor did she know even now exactly what it was that he had set out to do, even though she was pretty sure that he had found a way to do it. If this Elven girl confirmed her suspicions about where he was, she would have to take new measures to protect herself. She had come too far and suffered too much to think of giving up what she had gained. The rest of them could do as they wished, if she let them live long enough, but she had set her mind on her own course of action and did not intend to deviate from it.
Grianne Ohmsford was powerful, but she was also mortal. By now, she could be dead. By now, she should be.
But a nagging certainty whispered that she wasn’t.
Better I die than that I concede anything to her. Or to that boy.
She imagined momentarily what she would do to Penderrin Ohmsford if she somehow managed to get her hands on him. The image that came to mind made her shiver.
When Traunt Rowan and Pyson Wence reappeared with the Elven girl, Shadea was surprised to see how small and vulnerable looking she was; she had imagined the girl larger and more imposing. The Gnome Hunter clothing she wore, obviously stolen to provide her with a disguise, was ill fitting, loose, and made her look smaller still. But when she saw Shadea, she displayed a look of such obvious defiance that it instantly infuriated the sorceress.
Little fool!
She walked up to the girl without a word, snatched her by her clothing so that she was off balance, and struck her hard across the face. The blow was delivered open-handed, so as not to break anything, but the sound of it caused Traunt Rowan to flinch. The force of the slap sent the girl sprawling. Without waiting for her to recover, Shadea stalked over to where she lay, grabbed another handful of clothing, and hauled her back to her feet.
Then she placed her face inches from the girl’s. “That was to give you some small idea of how I feel about what you have done. It should also indicate what sort of trouble you are in.”
The defiance was gone from the girl’s face, replaced by a sullen acceptance of her fate. Shadea gave her a moment to recover, to let the words sink in, then struck her again, knocking her to the floor once more.
This time when she stood the girl up again, there were tears in her eyes. “It hurt more this time, didn’t it?” Shadea asked softly. “But I haven’t begun to hurt you yet. What is your name?”
When the girl didn’t answer fast enough, Shadea struck her again, twice, the open-handed blows delivered first to one side of her face and then to the other. The girl’s head snapped back and forth with the blows, and she gasped audibly with each one. Shadea gripped her clothing with her free hand so that she couldn’t fall, kept her standing upright, sagging slightly from the attack.
“Your name, girl,” she repeated. “You are an Elessedil or you are a thief because only one or the other would possess the Elfstones.
Which is it?”
“Khyber Elessedil,” the girl whispered. Her face was already beginning to redden and swell.
Shadea glanced at her companions, both of whom shook their heads. Neither recognized anything beyond the Elessedil part of the name.
“What are you to Kellen Elessedil?” Shadea snapped.
“He is my brother.”
“Was,” Shadea corrected. “He’s dead. Killed on the Prekkendorran almost a week ago.”
She watched the girl’s gaze lift to meet hers and saw more tears fill her eyes. Good. She was already beginning to come apart. This wouldn’t be so hard.
“You are all alone, Khyber Elessedil,” she whispered, her voice flat and emotionless. “No one even knows you are here, save those you left stranded in the ruins of Stridegate and the boy you helped escape. I wouldn’t expect any help from them, if I were you. Nor from any other source. You no longer possess the Elfstones; I have them safely tucked away. You have no real Druid magic to help you escape; you are a neophyte. Your fate is sealed. If you want to live, you will tell me exactly what I want to know. Are you listening to me?”
The girl nodded, but there was a hint of defiance still in her dark eyes. Shadea smiled. Foolish bravado.
She reached inside the girl’s clothing, found a place where the flesh was soft and vulnerable, fastened her fingers like a vise, and twisted. The girl screamed with pain, her body jerking in an effort to get free. Shadea held her fast and twisted harder.
“Are you listening carefully?” she hissed.
The girl nodded, her eyes shut against the pain. “Then be quick to answer when I ask you a question.” She withdrew her hand. “I can cause you a great deal more pain than a few slaps across the face and a little twisting of your tender parts. I can hurt you in places you haven’t even begun to think about. I can make you beg for me to kill you. I learned how while I served with the Federation army on the Prekkendorran. I learned that and a good deal more that you don’t want to know anything about!”
She paused. “Let’s try it again. I ask a question, you give me an answer. Where did Penderrin Ohmsford go?”
The girl exhaled sharply, her head sagging. “Into the Forbidding. After the Ard Rhys.”
Shadea glanced disdainfully at Traunt Rowan and Pyson Wence. Hear that? Her eyes challenged them to say otherwise. “How did he get into the Forbidding? No one can go there without magic. Was it the staff he carried out of Stridegate that let him do so?”
The girl nodded again and swallowed thickly.
“How did he find this staff?” She was furious at the idea of it, enraged that such a talisman even existed. “How did he know what it would do?” She reached down and yanked the girl’s chin off her chest, pinching her jaws. “Speak to me, you little fool!”
The dark eyes opened, filled with hate. “The King of the Silver River told him.”
Shadea stared at her wordlessly, then let her head drop down again. A Faerie creature was ai
ding the boy. No wonder he had found a way. She refused to look at her Druid allies, afraid of what she would see in their eyes after hearing that.
She snatched a handful of the girl’s close-cropped hair and pulled her head back up again. “Why this boy?” she demanded. “Why him? Why not his father? His father is Bek Ohmsford, brother to Grianne. He is the one with real magic. What does this boy have that brought the King of the Silver River to him?”
The girl shook her head slowly. “I don’t know. Something different. Something …”
“If he succeeds, if he finds Grianne Ohmsford, what happens then? How does he get back?”
“The staff.”
“The staff? The staff what? What does it do?” She shook the girl until she could hear her bones crack. “What does the staff do, little Elven girl? How does it work?”
The girl shuddered. “Brings … them back … together. To the place … they went in.”
She sagged heavily, and Shadea realized she had fainted. Too much pain, apparently. She wasn’t as strong as she had tried to make herself appear. She looked frail, and she was. A poor ally to the boy. But then they were all poor allies, those who had sought to help him, the living and the dead. He had wasted himself relying on them. Whatever chance he had, it did not lie with the likes of this girl and Tagwen and Kermadec and his Rock Trolls.
She flung the girl to the floor and let her lie. Her mind raced. It didn’t matter if the boy had crossed over into the Forbidding. It didn’t matter if he had found a temporary ally in a spirit creature. What mattered was that his chances of surviving inside the Forbidding were much less than those of Grianne Ohmsford, and hers were poor. What mattered was that if he somehow got out of the Forbidding, she must reduce those chances to zero.
She exhaled sharply, her focus on what was needed sharp and clear. She understood the situation perfectly. If Grianne Ohmsford and the boy must return the same way they went in, then they must come back through the very chamber in which she now stood. That gave her a distinct advantage, and she intended to make use of it.
She turned toward her allies. If either had been startled by what they had heard, they had managed to recover their composure. Pyson Wence wore his sly, cautious look. Traunt Rowan was steady-eyed and stone-faced against whatever she had to offer.
She surprised them. “What’s done is done,” she said quietly. “It was as much my fault as it was yours. I am the one who leads; I am the one who must bear responsibility for any failure. I should have taken better precautions before going south to Arishaig. I regret that, but there is nothing to be gained by dwelling on it. Let us consider instead what we must do to compensate.”
She moved over to the window and beckoned for them to join her. They did so with a certain degree of hesitation. Neither was convinced that she had undergone a real change of heart.
“The boy is inside the Forbidding searching for his aunt. He might find her, if both can manage to stay alive long enough. He might even manage to bring her back again, through the wall of the Forbidding, using whatever magic it is that this staff gives him. I don’t think it is likely or even possible, but I don’t want to chance being wrong.”
She spoke in a whisper, so that they were forced to bend close. She spoke as if she were in fear of being overheard. In truth, she simply wanted them to think she was taking them into her confidence. Which, in a way, she was. She just wasn’t doing so for the reasons they thought.
“We know that the staff’s magic will bring them to these chambers. We must be waiting for them if that happens. More to the point, we must find a way to make certain that they will be rendered helpless. Even if we are not here, personally, to intercept them, we must make certain that it doesn’t matter, that they are caged and stripped of their power and made prisoners. They must be given no chance to use their magic—especially Grianne Ohmsford. They must be disarmed.”
“You make this sound so easy, Shadea,” Pyson Wence sneered. “As if disarming a Druid of Grianne Ohmsford’s power were easily within our means. But it isn’t, is it? Catching her off guard and vulnerable was our best chance. She won’t be caught napping a second time. She will come back through that doorway like a whirlwind and we will all be swept away!”
Shadea gave him a pitying smile. “Such dramatics, Pyson. You would think she frightened you. Are you frightened of her?”
“We both have a healthy respect for what she will likely do to us if she gets the chance,” Traunt Rowan answered for him. “As should you.”
She gave him a quick shake of her head. “I don’t respect anyone who misuses power as she has. I don’t respect anyone with her history. She is an animal, and I will see her caged or put down.”
“Brave words, Shadea.” He looked less than convinced. “How do you intend to give them weight?”
She shrugged. “We’ll create a triagenel,” she said.
For the first time that afternoon, she saw agreement reflected in their eyes.
“First,” she declared, when they had finished discussing how the triagenel would be achieved, “we have to dispose of the girl. She’s told us what we want to know about the boy. She has no further use. Sooner or later, someone will come looking for her, and I don’t want them to find her here.”
Pyson Wence shrugged. “What do you want done with her?”
“Have your Gnome Hunters take her down to the furnaces and throw her in.” She glanced at the girl, who still lay unconscious on the floor. “She won’t be much trouble, but bind her anyway. Here, take these and throw them in, as well.”
She handed the pouch with the Elfstones to Traunt Rowan. He stared at them in disbelief. “But, Shadea—”
“They’re useless to us,” she interrupted quickly. “Only Elves can make use of their magic. We’re not Elves. If we can’t make use of them, let’s see to it that no one else can, either. Besides, they are markers. If anyone finds them on us or at Paranor, they will have found a link to the girl. We don’t want that. No, throw them into the furnace and be done with it. Come back here when it is finished, and we will begin building the triagenel.”
When they were gone, taking the girl and the Elfstones with them, she slipped from the room and went down through the corridors and stairwells of the Keep to a small guardroom that sat near the back of the north wall. A triagenel is strong enough to hold even Grianne Ohmsford, she was thinking as she moved along the passageways. Traunt Rowan and Pyson Wence recognized this and so were willing to offer their talents to form it. Three magics from three separate sources, combined in the right way, created a net that would contain and neutralize even the most powerful magic wielder. It took time and effort to build a triagenel, but she had never heard of anyone who was able to overcome one once caught in it. Stringing it about the perimeters of the room would assure them of snaring anyone who entered. There was no escaping a triagenel, once caught in it. Only its creators could undo it. Grianne Ohmsford and the boy would be snared like rabbits—or more like wolves—but snared nevertheless. By the time the triagenel was released, their lives would be over.
She considered the possibility that the triagenel would disintegrate before they were ready to attempt their return. It enjoyed only a limited lifetime, only a finite period of existence because the magic was so powerful that eventually it became unstable and collapsed. But another could be built. And another after that, should the need arise. At some point, it would be clear that her victims weren’t coming back after all, and the effort to create further triagenels could be abandoned.
She was satisfied that her plan would work. She was confident that she could undo the damage that her inept allies had created.
She reached a heavy wooden door at the end of a darkened passageway set in the recesses of the northeast tower. She rapped sharply on it and heard a murmur of voices and a furtive scuffling from the room beyond. Then the lock released and a bearded face thrust into view. Eyes that were mean and piggish fixed on her, then looked quickly away. The man’s head disappe
ared back inside the chamber.
“Gresheren!” he hissed.
She waited until a second man appeared, this one big and hulking, but with a sharper, more cunning look to him. He bowed to her immediately and stepped outside the room and into the hallway, closing the door behind him.
“Mistress,” he greeted. “You have need of me?”
She took him away from the door and into the shadows. “I have a job for you. I want you to select four of your best men to dispose of someone. They will have the advantage of numbers and surprise, but that is likely all. They must strike quickly and surely. There will be no second chance. If they succeed and return alive, I will give them a year’s pay for their efforts.”
“Fair enough, Mistress,” he rumbled. “More than fair. Who is it that you want killed?”
“A traitor, Gresheren,” she told him. “A Druid traitor.”
SIXTEEN
When Traunt Rowan threw her over his shoulder and carried her from the room, Khyber Elessedil was not unconscious. She was pretending to be, as she had pretended to be for most of the time after Shadea had thrown her down. But she was awake.
It was a trick of elemental magic she had learned from Ahren. If she was suffering too much pain, whatever the reason, she could distance herself from her anguish. She could quite literally go outside her body; she could disconnect her emotional self from her physical self. She couldn’t do it for long, only a couple of minutes at a time. When the ruse worked, it gave her the appearance of being unconscious or asleep. In the past, the attempt was sometimes unsuccessful because her concentration failed. She had good reason not to let it fail here—the pain Shadea was inflicting on her was excruciating.
Once she appeared unconscious and Shadea lost interest in her, she slipped back inside her pain-racked body, hoping the Druids were preoccupied enough that they would let her be. She listened to what they had to say, though. She listened carefully. Some of it was inaudible to her, the words whispered too softly and from too far away to be heard clearly. But she heard enough to get the gist of what they were deciding, especially when it came to the part about disposing of her.